


Deign to Save the Suppliant Soul

by ghostpicnic



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Lighthouse (2019), Dark Will Graham, Gaslighting, Hallucinations, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, M/M, Murder Husbands, Nightmares, Porn in Later Chapters, Slow Burn, Will Graham Has Encephalitis, Will Graham Loves Hannibal Lecter, eventually, hannibal gets shipwrecked, ill tag the porn when i write it, is hannibal a siren? idk, literally!! haha get it cuz he has to light the gas in the lighthouse......, past Will Graham/Molly Graham, the lighthouse (2019) - Freeform, this is the lighthouse au no one has been asking for, will graham has an accent its necessary for the vibes i know it bothers some people but its here, will graham is a lighthouse keeper, will thinks theres something evil in the lantern
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-19 03:42:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29744472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostpicnic/pseuds/ghostpicnic
Summary: "For a moment he thinks the man might be dead, that the sea saw fit to bring death to Will’s door once more, but when he leans over the side and presses his fingers to his cool throat, he feels a shallow pulse."Will is a lighthouse keeper whose shift on the solitary island is coming to an end when he finds an unconscious man at sea, presumably a shipwreck victim. Are the strange things that begin happening after he pulls the man from the sea due to Will's increasing fever, or is this helpful stranger more sinister than he appears?
Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 12
Kudos: 46





	1. Winds Change

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is like. 2/3rds (ish) of the way done not including editing. itll probably end up being 7 chapters around 10-12k words total. ive never attempted a multichap fic before so we'll see how it goes
> 
> HUGE HUGE thank you to my beloved giffin cuttingstones for helping me plot, research, and beta this fic this would not exist without him (for better or worse)
> 
> if you like me also or whatever you can also find me on tumblr

Since Will’s been alone, he hasn’t had a single headache. That dull pain had followed him for so long he'd forgotten what comfort felt like until the ache had finally disappeared. There was no buzzing, no constant fear. 

Until now, that is. 

He wakes up one week before he’s scheduled to be picked up from the tiny island he’s stationed on with a splitting headache, worse than he remembers ever having before. That’s the thing about pain, years of built up numbing crumble under only a few short moments of comfort. In just this month of solitude he’s gone back to being vulnerable.

He works through it anyway. If he could work before he came to this rock, he can work now.

He doesn’t have time much to focus on the pain, anyway. It is a blessed oblivion that he has built on this rock, now marred by the throbbing in his skull. Alone, he works dawn to dusk, shoveling coal, hauling oil barrels, fixing the roof, mopping the floor. All his days are monotonous task after monotonous task and it is blissful. He thinks of nothing at all but the next menial labour he must pursue. 

Even in the night, he must man the light from dusk to dawn, with time only for a few dreamless hours of rest after losing his mind in that spinning beacon. 

It is the best job he’s ever had, he thinks. 

Solitude is all he ever craved, and he has long since done away with his only obstacle to just that. 

But the pain leaks in through the cracks in the fortress of his mind. The throbbing at the edges of his vision slowly corrupts the haven he has found here.

It’s midday when he takes the dory out to fish. It’s an attempt to relax himself, to sink back into that blankness and ignore the throbbing in his skull. He’s only been out for around fifteen minutes when he sees an impossibly huge floating mass. 

Agitated gulls are swarming it, a huge dark cluster near half the size of the rock he lives on. The air seems to grow colder as he floats closer, the water surrounding it darker than the rest. 

Curiosity gets the best of him. He begins rowing towards it. 

As he gets closer, he can see the bones floating in the water, coming off the mass like the tendrils of a hurricane. The smell is awful, like rotting flesh, and he worries vaguely about sharks. The mass reveals itself to be a giant cluster of wood, presumably from a ship, broken planks splayed and pointing skyward. It’s all quite dramatic, especially since the bones Will had passed earlier are more plentiful here, all of them too splintered for him to determine their origin. On the raft floats a man, splayed out on his back, legs and arms akimbo. It is curiosity more than relief that drives Will to push through the debris.

For a moment he thinks the man might be dead, that the sea saw fit to bring death to Will’s door once more, but when he leans over the side and presses his fingers to his cool throat, he feels a shallow pulse.

The man’s clothes are in tatters, soaking wet and practically falling off him. He has blood and salt caked on almost every inch of him, seaweed and kelp tangled in his salt and pepper hair. 

Gently, Will gets his arm beneath the man and hauls him into the small boat. His face is hot to the touch, almost feverish. He whips the kelp from his face and looks over his form, noting the shallow rise and fall of his chest as evidence of the life still present within him. 

He looks formidable, in a way. His otherworldly features evoke memories of the tales Will heard told by drunken and swaying sailors on the docks he’d worked in his youth. Tales of sirens, half-human, half-fish creatures from the sea that would lure men in with their pretty faces and sung promises before drowning and eating them. This man’s strong jaw and jutting lips fit the description of uncanny beauty those sailors parroted almost too perfectly. 

Will is somewhat tempted to throw him back out to sea, to continue basking in his beautiful solitude. Whatever strange story this man carries is not something Will wants nor cares to deal with. 

But something about the man calls to him. Somewhere in his too soft looking hair, in the heat of his skin, in the way he still looks guarded even in an unconscious state, there is something that resonates. And then he is simply too curious to hear the man’s voice to throw him out to sea.

So, he sits back and begins the task of rowing back to the small island. Once there, he gets his arms beneath the man’s shoulders and pulls him back to the cabin.

The man is bigger than Will, but it’s not a long walk and Will has built up considerable muscle in his time here, so it’s no more of a strain than any of his other chores. 

He tries his best not to jostle the man too much, as he doesn’t know how extensive his wounds are, but he is much too big for Will to carry, so dragging along the ground is really his only option. It’s a surprise when the man doesn’t so much as stir when Will heaves him over the rocky patch that frames the small beach. 

When the man doesn’t even sniffle after Will accidentally drops him in the doorway to the shack, he begins to worry if this was even worth it. If the man is so close to death that he’s dragged a practical corpse into his living space.

Regardless, he’s done so much he decides he may as well finish his task, dragging the man the last few yards before hefting him onto the second bed.

Will is not a doctor by any means, but men often got hurt in his days working in the boatyards, he knows how to treat wounds.  
He gets to work shucking the man of what’s left of his clothes, not really registering the nudity, too busy checking him for broken bones and signs of infection. 

There are various big, ugly bruises along his body, not much to be done about those aside from ice, which he does not have much of. No way of freezing water all the way out here, where it gets cold, just not quite cold enough. They are unlikely to lead to infection regardless, so he lets them lie.

Along the man’s chest there are several shallow streaks of red, almost like claw marks. They are caked in sand and sea water, so instead of worrying about their cause, he brings a bucket of water from the basin and sets to work cleaning them. None are deep enough to require stitches, but when he’s done he wraps a bandage around the man’s torso just in case.  
The rest of him is fairly clean of markings, which is relief enough for Will. The man’s extended unconscious state might imply a concussion, but there is nothing to be done about that until he wakes. 

Will takes a rag and cleans the man’s face, removing the salt and sand caked around his eyes, pulling the debris from his hair. It is alarmingly tender, and when finished the man looks almost soft, several years seemingly stripped from his elegantly wrinkled face. 

He hurries to the dresser at the foot of the bed, rushes the task of redressing him. 

With nothing to do now but wait, Will returns to his duties. Many of his outdoor chores had already been completed when he’d left on the dory, so he does a quick check around the island before returning inside to better keep an eye on the man.

Somewhere between the mopping and the cleaning of dishes, the man on the bed begins to stir. As if waking from any normal slumber, he makes a small sound, then shifts before sitting straight up in bed. 

Will does not meet his eyes, staunchly focusing on the man’s nose. They stare at each other a moment before Will speaks.

“You’re awake.”

“That I am.” His voice is heavily accented and slightly slurred from sleep, but otherwise clear. Will is relieved he speaks English, smiling a bit at the smooth, ambiguously forgein accent. The sound of it alone might have been worth the trouble of saving him.  
“May I ask where I am?”

Will huffs, sets down the cup he’s washing. “Lighthouse. Off the coast of Maryland. I took the dory out to do some fishin’, found you floatin’ on a raft of bones, awful beat up.”

The man nods. “I was a physician on a voyage, I believe the ship was damaged by a whale while I was below deck. I have no way of knowing if anyone else survived.”

If Will thinks it’s at all suspicious that the man got out of that with so little damage, or that he was found in such an ominous manner, it is nothing more than a passing thought before he turns back to his dishes. “A crew’ll be here in a week to take me back to the mainland, you can stay ‘n rest here ‘til they come.”

“Thank you for your kindness.” The man says, and Will hears shuffling as he stands and limps to the small kitchen. “Do you think I could trouble you for some water?”

Will takes the cup he has just finished washing and pumps water from the spigot into it. Without looking at the man, he shoves it into his hands. 

“Thank you.” He drinks hungrily, draining the cup before bringing it back to the spout and refilling it. 

“Careful, that cisterns the only freshwater we got.”

Finally, the man comes up for air, gasping. “Apologies, I don’t quite know how long I’ve been without water. Do you by any chance know the date?”

“March 14th.”

He hums, but does not use that information to elaborate on his experience, which comes as a relief to Will. “Not much for talking, are you?” he says instead.

“Not particularly. You should rest, I’ve duties to attend to.” He returns to washing, his neck tingling under the weight of the man’s eyes fixed on him, but he doesn’t look back up. Eventually, he hears footsteps padding back to the beds. 

His headache is back. He hadn’t noticed it’d been gone.

***

He spends the rest of the afternoon tending to the light before nightfall, cleaning the outer windows of the chamber, trimming the wick and refilling the kerosine. When he finally returns, rubbing his temple, the man is sitting in the kitchen, pots on the stove and a delicious smell permeating the room.

The man nods at him, a vaguely pained expression on his face.

“Did you cook?” Will asks, walking to the stove and lifting the lid to examine the contents. It’s a soup of some sort, and it smells _fantastic_. 

“I hope it wasn’t an imposition, but I made use of your rations. Part of my duties on that ship were to cook, I’ve been told I’m fairly good at it.”

Will snorts softly, knowing false humility when he hears it. “No imposition at all. I never eat my meals proper.”

“Then I’m glad to provide after you so graciously saved me.” He tries to resist turning to face the man at that, doesn’t want to see the look of gratitude on his face. When he does turn, the man is looking at him, but not with gratitude. There is an intentness, a piercing interest Will cannot determine the name to. 

“Yeah, well, don’t go thankin’ me too soon. Best wait til’ we’re off this rock.”

The man makes a soft hum at that, then looks to the pot. “If you don’t mind, it should be about ready, but I’m afraid I quite exhausted myself in the act of making it, if you would be so kind as to serve.”

Obediently, he gets two bowls from the cabinet and ladles soup into them, then sets them on the table as he sits across from the man. Spooning it into his mouth, he is not surprised to find that it is, in fact, fairly good. He hums in approval, raising his head to see the man looking at him with that same look on his face. He says nothing, does not meet the man’s eyes.

“I was under the impression that lighthouse keepers typically operate in pairs.” 

Will does not react. His movements remain steady as he lifts another spoonful of broth to his lips. “They do. Usually. But I like the solitude. And I’m perfectly capable of manning the light by myself.”

“No wonder your supplies are so plentiful, you must hardly have time to eat.”

“Not much appetite. I’m perfectly healthy.”

The man does not respond to that, simply allows them to eat in silence, which Will appreciates.

After dinner, Will washes the dishes while the man rests. Before he’d returned to his bed, he’d told Will that he was fairly certain he had a cracked rib or two, and that all that could be done with the supplies they had was rest, so Will let him. 

Will lets the man know about the extra clothes in the dresser and tells him not to expect him back until morning before leaving to take up his post at the top of the tower. He only pushes slightly for Will to sleep before retiring. 

The rest of the night is uneventful, Will losing himself in that shining light as he so often does, trying to make out the shapes at the center. Occasionally, he convinces himself there is a face in there, watching, beckoning ships away from their doom.

Day breaks after what feels like no time at all. Only the reappearance of his splitting headache and the bone-deep exhaustion weighing him down are evidence of the long night. 

He finds his way down the stairs and into the tiny cabin somehow, collapsing and passing out immediately once in bed, still in his work clothes.

Dreams are scarce, ever since his solitude was secured, but now they are present but intangible. Amorphous, just as the center of the light. He sees the suggestion of faces, hears the outline of a song, and then he’s awakening to the smell of something on the stove. 

He is also underneath the blankets, and his shoes are gone. 

It seems he has drug a housewife from the sea.

Padding into the kitchen, he doesn’t see the man sitting at the table or standing at the stove, but he doesn’t give him a second thought as he scoops whatever delicious smelling broth is in it into a bowl and eats. There is bread from his stores on the counter, he tears a piece off and dips it in. 

The man walks back in when Will has a bite halfway to his mouth. He smirks slightly, but Will doesn’t look at his eyes and can’t accurately gauge his emotion.

“I’m glad you’re eating. Did you sleep well? I took it upon myself to clean up a bit so you would have more time to rest.”

“Ain’t you supposed to be the one restin’? Can’t imagine doin’ my job for me is too good for your rib.”

“I did nothing too strenuous, I’m sure whatever toll it will take on me to pick up some slack for the next week will be nothing compared to the toll it has taken on you, doing it all on your own for so long.”

Will snorts, doesn’t reply. 

But the man also does not stop. He seems to get the picture that Will’s not fond of talking, but he just… does everything unprompted. Will’s duties for the day are fulfilled, slower than usual, as he can’t seem to shake the exhaustion that followed him down from the light that morning, and his hard work is rewarded by cooked crab. It’s perfectly seasoned, filling him up and helping him to shake his sleepiness. 

They don’t talk much, and that suits Will just fine, allowing him to shake all thoughts of the comfort the man’s presence brings once he’s alone with the lantern. 

He doesn’t remember coming back down that morning when he wakes at midday, but there is a faint melody niggling at the back of his mind, one that he can’t shake, even as he follows the smell of food into the kitchen, or attends to his chores. 

A storm’s approaching, and he can’t afford the distraction, but he finds himself humming it as he shovels coal, and he bends several nails while reinforcing the roof, trying to catch the notes from his mind.

“Is your head bothering you?” the man asks over supper. Will’s expression had been downcast, head resting on one of his hands as he ate slowly.

“What? Well, yeah, but that’s nothin’ outta ordinary, I just got this song stuck in my head is all, I’m tryina figure out where I heard it.”

The man looks vaguely amused at this, responding: “How does it go?”

“It’s not got words, but it’s sorta like…” he hums the soft, lilting melody as best he can in his gruff and tone-deaf voice. He looks up when he’s done, accidentally meeting the man’s eyes for what must be the first time. His expression is shockingly sharp, looking at Will with keen, predatory interest. There is a monster behind those dark eyes, and Will is at once terrified and enthralled. 

He looks away. 

He is already stationed at the light when he realizes he never found out if the man knew the music’s origin.

The waves are heavy and vengeful tonight. There will surely be rain before dawn, and judging by the change of wind the past couple days, the storm’s sure to linger.

Losing himself in the light is harder tonight. He can’t shake the man’s eyes from his mind. They were such a dark brown, almost black. And he can’t stop seeing them in the center of the light, piercing him as the flame has so many times before. 

When he descends the tower at dawn, he looks out to the thrashing sea and wonders, for perhaps the first time, how the man had really gotten into that pile of bones.


	2. Siren Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"It is pulsing with life tonight, drawing Will closer. Despite the heat of the glass, he can’t help but press his hand to it, to feel the vibrations within._
> 
> _After what feels like seconds but could have just as well been hours, he realizes he recognizes the pace at which the lantern is buzzing. It’s that same melody, that haunting tune that has been stuck inside him for so long."_
> 
> Will is plagued by dreams. Will is telling lies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is def gonna end up more than 12k words but (probably) not more than 15k. probably. DEF not more than 20k
> 
> once again thank you to my beloved [giffin](https://cuttingstones.tumblr.com/) who has suggested soooo many of my favorite parts of this fic, as well as been my beloved beta reader. i love him ardently
> 
> follow my [tumblr](https://cannibalghost.tumblr.com/) too or whatever

Large, rough hands coax Will awake. It’s dark, he must have slept late. He is distracted from the panic that sleeping in would normally cause by those hands pulling at his clothes, forcing him out of bed. Squinting, he tries to figure out who, or what it is, but it’s too dark in the room to make out anything more than a dark silhouette. 

He throws the blankets off, allows himself to be led out of the cabin. It is brighter outside, by the light of the moon and the spinning beacon above. The waves are still and calm, practically demure. There’s a shy beauty in the way it sparkles in the moonlight. 

He is also alone. Who or whatever was leading him has vanished, leaving him to take in the dark of the sea, the stillness of the small island interrupted only by the rhythmic rotations of light. 

Then he can hear that melody. The one that has been haunting him. The one that beats in tune with the turns of the light above. 

It gets louder towards the small beach, so he follows it. There is a shape, out on the ocean, a flickering light growing steadily closer. He gets so fixated on it that he does not notice that there is something underfoot until he hears the third crunch.

Looking down in shock, he sees the small beach is absolutely littered with bones. The ones from that floating wreck must have washed up, as they are all shattered and fractured, too damaged to determine any of their origins. The smell of meat that had wafted off them on the ocean is gone, however. The bones are sucked clean.

When he looks back up the man is standing before him in the surf. He is wearing nothing but a long black robe, lined with pearls. His skin is soaked in a dark liquid that Will cannot identify. 

Before he has the chance to speak, the man reaches out his hand, cups Will’s face tenderly. His hands are ice.  
Despite himself, he leans into the touch, matting his beard with whatever stains the man’s hands. They are a healing balm to his own overheated and sweat-soaked skin. 

“Who are you?” he murmurs, pressing his cheek into the man’s palm. He is met with silence.

When he looks back up, the man’s face has shifted, and it is not the man anymore.

Crying out, Will jumps back, stumbling as his feet fall unsteadily against the bones. The man who is now a different man reaches out to him as he scrambles away, but he trips on the uneven ground. He is falling.

And then he is waking in his bed, in the cabin. The now familiar aching of his skull and the smell of something cooking in the kitchen greeting him like a warm embrace.

Groaning softly, he turns jerkily to throw himself out of bed. When he turns his head his eyes are met by the dark gaze of the man, who is sitting on the other bed, staring at Will intently.

“Christ!” he curses, nearly tumbling from the cot, just barely managing to get his feet under him to steady himself. The jostling has inflamed his headache, so he brings his hands to his temples. “D’you always watch me sleep?” 

The man cocks his head before replying. “No. But you seemed particularly distressed this morning.”

“Strange dreams. I’ve always had ‘em, just not in a while. Not since I’ve been here.”

“The same with your headaches?”

“Yeah.”

“What about your fever?”

“‘Scuse me?”

“You were overheated this morning, threw off your blankets despite the cold. I took the liberty of gauging your temperature, it’s much higher than is healthy. Perhaps you should consider resting these last two days.”

Will’s nose wrinkles at the knowledge that the man had been touching him while he slept, but he supposes that’s where the feeling of hands had come from in his dreams. Perhaps where the man’s face had come from as well. 

“I’ve worked through worse than a fever. I’ll be fine.” He pushes himself off the bed, feet finding his shoes as he walks into the kitchen.

“What harm could two days of rest do?” The man follows behind him.

“Lots. I don’t do my job, people die. Besides, we’re off here soon, workin’ a little longer ain’t gonna kill me.”

“You could allow me to help, to do more than simply cook for you.”

“Why would you do that? Ain’t you got a cracked rib?”

“Yes, however-”

“No. You don’t owe me jack shit for pullin’ you outta there. Now I know you must be hurtin’ from all this standin’, just let me do my damn job.”

The man doesn’t press further, just steps past Will to serve his food for him. He presses the bowl into Will’s hands, his own lingering for slightly longer than necessary. He gazes at Will while Will looks at the dish. 

***

It storms the whole day, the beat of the rain in tune with the throbbing in his skull. He’s forced to dig a coat out of the dresser the man has been taking clothes from to layer on top of his own.

He is working in the shed, shoveling coal, when he sees something sticking out from behind the furnace. At first he thinks it may be a part broken off, but it’s too round, too thick. He sets down the shovel and closes the grate, making his way around the furnace. 

It’s a rusted piece of metal, shoved way back there, and it takes Will a good amount of effort to pull it free, wincing when it makes an awful screeching noise as it runs along the metal and stone. 

What he thought was a bit of scrap metal turns out to be a figurine of some sort, a rusted likeness of a mermaid. He runs his thumbs over her rough surface, her once detailed face rubbed indecipherable. Her chest is nude, but the coppery-brown lumps are hardly titillating. 

It must have belonged to his partner. He’d worked in the shed a lot, and Will had heard him mention sirens once or twice. 

The thought reminds him that it may be time to broach a certain subject with his new companion, so he slips the figurine into his pocket and gets to work finishing with the coal. 

The man has not asked about the extra clothes or rations beyond what he said on that first night, about Will’s solitude. Will might have done well to make mention of the disappearance of his partner then, but it had been pushed so far back in his mind. 

Regardless, the crew would be back within the next two days, and of course Will has already changed the log book to match his story, but it doesn’t feel like enough. A better explanation might be to say he went out to look for survivors and didn’t return. His reports stretch into the time the man had joined him, and he doesn’t know if he trusts the man to not mention Will’s solitude. Although, he could double his alibi, alter the pages that stretch into their time together, convince the man to tell the story that needs to be told.

At dinner, he and the man sit in silence for a long time. Will breaks it out of necessity over desire for conversation. “I’m worried about Clark.”

“Pardon?” the man says, zeroing in on Will.

“My partner. When I found you he went out on the dory to look for more survivors. Ain't seen ‘im since.”

The man’s face barely changes, but Will sees the furrowing of his brow, the slight tilt to his head. “You had me believe you were alone here.”

“Clark was troubled, always a bit odd. He wasn’t much company. I think the solitude out ‘ere weighed on ‘im, dug him deep. He’d come down after his shift at the light talkin’ tales of sirens n’ the like, beautiful women he saw in the flame. It was alright, for a while, he was still workin’, but he started talkin’... violent. ‘Said he wanted to bash the girls’ heads dead on the rocks. Real disturbin’. Killed a sea bird not a week ago. Then when I found you, he got real mad, raving about sirens sinkin’ ships n’ drownin’ sailors. When he rowed out I’m not sure if it was to look for survivors or sirens. When he didn’t come back that first night, I assumed he went back to the mainland, you know, to get help n’ whatnot. But there’s been no sign of ‘im.” 

He considers placing the figurine on the table as evidence of Clark’s obsession, but once he’s wrapped his hand around it in his pocket he decides against it. 

“He killed a gull?” The man looks more curious than disturbed at what Will said.

“Sure did. I told ‘im it’s bad luck, but he wouldn’t listen. ‘Said they were spies.” 

“They’re said to carry the souls of men who’ve died at sea, perhaps he was not far off.”

“Makes sense. There were swarms of gulls where I found you, coulda been the remnants of your damned crew.”

The man nods sagely. “Perhaps.” 

They sit in silence for a moment, both contemplating this mad man’s fate, before the man speaks, his expression changing minutely into something Will recognizes as epiphany.

“You say he took the dory?”

“Yeah. It’s a piece of crap, anything coulda happened. I got my logbook detailin’ everything’ that happened n’ all, but I’m worried they’re gonna screw things up for me about it.”

“There is documentation of me being on the ship I was employed on, and I’m sure other remnants of the wreck have been found. I would be a reliable source in corroborating your innocence, if that is what you’re getting at.”

Will stiffens. It had been what he was getting at, of course it was. He just didn’t think he was being that transparent. 

“Well, good.” He nods, taking another bite of his soup. The man looks vaguely amused, though Will can’t for the life of him figure out why.

It puts him at unease, so he finishes his meal and quickly moves to do the dishes. The man is still relatively weak, and retires to his bed almost immediately. 

They say nothing further to each other as Will finishes cleaning up and leaves the cabin. 

Ascending the tower stairs is more effort than usual, tiredness and that pounding pressure in his skull weighing him down.   
Getting to the light feels unusually like a Pyrrhic victory, since he knows in a little while he will have to descend and complete the feat once more, but for now he takes his seat in front of the light. 

It is pulsing with life tonight, drawing Will closer. Despite the heat of the glass, he can’t help but press his hand to it, to feel the vibrations within. 

After what feels like seconds but could have just as well been hours, he realizes he recognizes the pace at which the lantern is buzzing. It’s that same melody, that haunting tune that has been stuck inside him for so long.

Shocked from his stupor, he yanks his hand back. His palm is red and scorched. It stings like nothing he’s ever felt and he screams, raw and hungry and pathetic. 

And then he wakes up, his vocal cords raw, on the platform around the light, the rain pounding the glass panels surrounding him. He must have fallen asleep. After an examination he finds his hand unburned, but tingling with pins and needles. 

Footsteps are pounding up the stairs, and the man is bursting through the grate in the floor and falling at Will’s side.

“Are you okay?” he asks. He looks almost frantic, protective. Will meets his eyes and sees genuine worry there. 

“I-yeah, I’m fine. Fell asleep at my post, had a nightmare.” He glances nervously back to the light, remembers his knowledge that he was burning and still reaching out. He shudders.

The man nods, sits back, wincing slightly. 

“Are you hurt?” Will asks, reaching for him.

He shakes his head. “I merely strained myself a bit too hard in my haste to make the climb. I am fine.”

“No, no, I’m not gonna-” Will gets up and offers his hand out to the man. “Lemme help you.”

“Don’t you need to remain at your post?”

“Nothing disastrous is going to happen in the time it takes me to help you back downstairs.” And if he’s honest, Will is not eager to be alone with the lantern again so soon after his dream. The small room feels damp with sweat and fever, and he needs to take a walk. 

So he is relieved when the man finally takes his hand, allowing himself to be hoisted and supported by Will.

It feels almost nice, being this close to another human. He does not want to think about the last time he was embraced. He simply allows himself to enjoy the warmth of the man’s side. 

Once he has secured the man in bed, he goes to return to the tower, but instead decides to take care of one last thing before resigning himself to the night of solitude. 

He makes his way to the small boathouse on the far side of the island. There, he takes the figurine out of his pocket and places it in the dory, then pushes them out to sea together. They are lost almost immediately in the thrashing waves. 

He stands there until he can bear it no more, finally putting his head down and returning to his post.

His head still hurts, and he is still so very tired, but he finds he can’t relax enough to even nod off. There is an edge to the light tonight, he thinks, something that hadn’t been there before. It makes him uneasy. 

The rain is so loud, it blocks out everything, all sights and sounds besides him and the light. Even when dawn comes, the clouds are so dense he hardly notices the change. 

When he finally sleeps he dreams of burning.

***

The man wakes him up a little past midday. 

“You seemed to cling to sleep so I took the liberty of waking you,” he says, Will blinking up at him blearily. “I’ve prepared our breakfast if you would like to join me.”

Will nods sleepily and pulls himself out of bed. 

“You seem more tired than usual,” the man observes, walking into the kitchen. “Did you have trouble sleeping after last night’s incident?”

“What incident?” Will asks, rubbing his back and rolling his eyes as he pulls on his day clothes. He’s got a knot in his lower back that he knows is gonna drive him mad. “Nightmares ain’t an incident.”

“Waking up screaming is, though.”

“I dreamt she burnt me, ‘s all,” he says, not looking at the man as he pours a couple fingers of whiskey into a mug.

“Dreamt who burnt you?”

“The light. She was… callin’ to me, I guess.”

“Was it singing that melody you mentioned to me two nights ago?”

Will stares at him. “Thought you was a doctor, not a philosopher.”

“Physicians study the mind as well as the brain. I was employed on that ship for my mental support as much as my surgical and culinary know-how.”

“What didn’t you do on that ship, seems you could’ve made a one-man crew.”

“Perhaps if I had, the boat wouldn’t have sunk.”

That shocks a laugh out of Will, for the first time in what feels like forever. It evokes a soft smile from the man, stirring something unrecognizable in Will’s stomach. 

“Yeah, well, we’re off here tomorrow, you can start your solo voyage then.”

“After the experience I’ve had, I’ve found the appeal of solitude of the waves has greatly lessened.”

Something about his tone of voice makes Will flush and he quickly looks away, staring studiously at his mug. “How’d y’all get sunk anyway? Just occurred that I never asked.”

“You never asked my name either,” the man says, humor evident in his tone. “But it is a rudeness I forgive, on the basis that you’ve been doing two men’s jobs, all the while worrying for your partner.”

Will snorts, knowing that his lack of curiosity was in perfect character for him. _If only he knew_ , he muses. He does not ask the man’s name.

“It was a whaling ship. We were meant to be out there for two years, but it had been less than one when I was below decks preparing a meal and one of them spotted a whale. It was not one of my duties to help them take those beautiful creatures to their doom, so I stayed where I was. But someone must have made a mistake, because before I knew it there was the sound of wood splintering and I was thrown into the wall. When I next awoke it was to the sight of you.”

“Some story, Doc. My very own Robinson Crusoe.”

The man’s nose doesn’t quite wrinkle at that, but his distaste is obvious in his eyes. “I’ve never been much for the great American literature you all are so fond of. I find it quite vulgar.”

Taking another sip from his mug, Will just shakes his head. 

“You should eat. Whiskey is not enough to get you through our final day.” He hands a plate to Will, his posture making it evident that he would not take “no” for an answer here. 

So Will acquiesces, taking the plate and digging in. He lets out a small noise in pleasure. “Damn, as strange as it sounds, I may miss this cookin’ back home.”

The man just keeps smiling his little half smile as he watches Will eat. It’s not as disconcerting as it was at the beginning of the week. The man genuinely just wants confirmation that Will is being nourished.

“Food has been the catalyst for so much of our conversation,” he suddenly says, breaking the easy silence. “We don’t speak unless we are eating. It is the bedrock on which we lay the foundations of our relationship.”

“We don’t have a relationship. I don’t even know your name.”

“You may know it, if you asked. It is not something I am deliberately keeping from you.” The “you are keeping it from yourself” goes unsaid.

Will leans back in his chair, deliberating. His eyes track the man’s hand as he elegantly spears a piece of fish and raises it to his lips in a distinctly European manner. 

“Fine then,” he relents, leaning forward again. “What’s your name?”

“Hannibal Lecter.”

That is nearly too much for Will, a loud, startled laugh escaping his mouth. “No, seriously, what’s your name?”

The man looks just the slightest bit disgruntled. “I do not know what you think I would have to gain from lying to you now, I assure you that is my given name.”

Will sits back, still grinning. “A week of buildup for that was almost worth it, I think.”

“May I have the pleasure of knowing your name, now that you have so artfully humiliated me?” The words are sharp, but there’s a tenderness in his tone.

“Ah, don’t be so sensitive. No one’s got that kinda name where I’m from. I can’t possibly hope to measure up.”

“There is no contest, please. I would simply like to know the name of the man who has rescued me.”

“Fine, fine.” Will splays his hands in front of his chest in mock defeat. “‘Name’s Hobbs. Garrett Jacob Hobbs.” 

The man, Hannibal, looks thoughtful, then offers his hand. “Lovely to meet you, Garrett Jacob Hobbs.”

Will grins good-naturedly. “And I you, Hannibal Lecter.”


End file.
